


Score: Part Two

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, I don't do tags well, In a way, Internal Conflict, M/M, Sex, Smut, Top Arthur, because it's dutch, bottom dutch, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: Many years ago I wrote a The Revenge Business one-shot entitled Score.This is the sequel no-one asked for!
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, vandermorgan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54





	Score: Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> um
> 
> yeah.
> 
> sorry.

~Come back to me when you get double that~

Oh, he did that. Double and double again.

Twelve thousand total. Enough to get past where they are, enough to move on, enough to clothe and feed and eat and drink and delight in riches.

Enough.

For now.

And Arthur is beyond proud of himself. His face, lit by moonlight and whiskey, is a shadow of his former hurts. Everything, Dutch realises as he looks at him from across the campfire, everything in the past is nothing now. Everything in this moment is perfect. Arthur is perfect.

A promise.

He made it, sure. But Dutch does and will break all promises when they don’t serve his purpose. Arthur knows this and so he hasn’t asked, hasn’t brought it up, hasn’t mentioned it.

A challenge.

There is no-one else with them right now. Just the two of them and a lonely stretch of road ahead. Just the two of them, a campfire and a tent.

Roughing it.

As though Dutch hasn’t lived his entire life this way.

He looks to Arthur, looks to the discarded whiskey bottle at his side, knows that in his pack there is oil to ease the way.

Dutch flicks his cigarette to the ground, watches it fizzle and spit out.

“Come here.” 

Arthur looks up, wary instantly. 

Good. He should be.

“Why?”

Always questioning him. May it never change.

“Just do it Arthur.” He does, stands on alcohol shaky legs and ambles over to him. Dutch knows that he’s aware of the emptiness around him, just as he knows he’s aware that still, even in the darkest part of the night, someone could stumble on them.

Maybe it’s Dutch, really, that’s feeling invincible tonight.

Oh, Arthur. Good boy, his boy.

He stands above him, hands hang loose and limp at his sides and Dutch knows that he wants to touch, he can see it in the twitch of his fingers, the darkness shading his eyes.

Oh, how he likes this.

“I made a promise to you.” He begins, and Arthur snorts out a laugh.

“You made me a lot of promises Dutch.” 

Angry boy, spiteful boy, Dutch’s boy.

It actually makes him smile.

“Any more talk like that and you won’t get nothing.” Arthur shuts up instantly, mouth snapped closed, pretty lips a thin line. 

Good.

Dutch stands, reaches forwards, hand curls.

Around his throat.

Applies pressure.

So that he knows.

And Arthur does know, of course he knows, as he waits still as a statue, waits, looks in his eyes, silent.

Waits.

“You get this once.” Dutch says softly, and knows with pride that there’s no shake in his voice, no tell.

There is never a tell with Dutch Van Der Linde.

“Once more and that’s it.” Arthur’s eyes belie his confusion but he says nothing, knows not to. “And you can have it tonight, when I’m feeling generous, or you can ask another night when I’m feeling not so. Which is it?”

Waits.

And Arthur chuckles.

“I ain’t an idiot Dutch.” He’s hard already, that Dutch can feel, being pressed up as close as they are now. Hard and wanting.

Oh. Arthur.

“No one ever accused you of that.”

He lets go and Arthur stumbles back a little.

“Come on.” 

***

Inside the tent and Dutch is not feeling as brave as he was outside. Sobered up and regretting. But Arthur is over him, around him, filling him, consuming him.

Arthur is all.

And he’s so good at this.

Too good.

Better than he should be.

He consumes him.

His fear.

Dutch refuses to close his eyes, refuses to give him that as Arthur looks down in wonder between their bodies, looks down at where he’s moving inside him.

Slow.

It’s too slow.

And Dutch can feel it, building up hard inside him.

He looks to Arthur, reaches up and pushes his fingers in his mouth, pushes him back, archs him back.

Too good. He’s too good.

How did he get this good?

“Are you going to fuck me or what Arthur? You’re not having tea with the queen here.” He can hear the slight shake now in his voice as Arthur stops, stills, shocked and...something else. Something Dutch can’t read.

A moment then, a long disastrous gorgeous moment as Arthur looks down at him. Arthur, who is so rarely above him, who looks so good like this that Dutch can never, never allow it again. 

And Arthur wets his lips, pulses inside him, the pain now pleasure. 

Too much pleasure.

Arthur looks at him, searching, questioning.

He doesn’t want to get it wrong, doesn’t want to be kicked out, doesn’t want a night in the cold away from Dutch. Doesn’t want to make the wrong step and Dutch can see all of this in his eyes.

And he likes it.

This is what he wants.

This is his Arthur.

So, 

And so.

Dutch nods. Once. Firmly. He won’t do it again and Arthur moves quick, knowing this. He pulls out, leaving him empty and gaping and wanting and grabs Dutch roughly, shoving him over onto his front.

One hand on the back of his neck, pushing him into the thin mat.

The other hand on his ass, spreading him.

Oh god oh lord.

Dutch squeezes his eyes shut, 

And allows himself to feel.

It’s rough and it’s hard and it’s painful and it’s glorious and hateful and lust and love all in one. 

Arthur goes hard, hand slipping from his neck to the floor besides him, pulling himself up as he fucks up into him. Hips pistoning, like he hates him.

Like he knows.

Knows this is what Dutch wants.

What he’s always wanted.

No.

No, he doesn’t allow that thought.

Won’t allow it.

Don’t think it and it won’t be real.

He can feel himself about to cry out and presses his face harder into the mat, arches his back to allow Arthur deeper and that sound, good lord, that guttural, gasped, shocked moan is worth a thousand useless orgasms with a thousand whores.

That sound.

Harder now, faster now, as if Arthur thinks if he doesn’t do this now…

Oh fuck.

Oh Jesus.

His own cock rough pushed against the mat, pressed between his body and the floor, painfully hard and painful in itself. 

He likes this too much.

They both like this too much.

Never again.

Always.

And then Arthur stops, suddenly and without warning, reaches over and curls his arm under him, under Dutch’s throat, pulls him up just a little and presses his lips to his ear.

“Thank you.”

And with those two words the world is split open.

Because Arthur knows.

He listens and he watches and he reads between the lines.

His boy, Dutch’s boy,

The one they never suspect.

Slower, faster, picking up speed, harder.

It hurts.

Burns,

Beautiful pain.

He’s going to come, they both are, at once all at once.

No.

Never.

“Dutch…” Arthur is broken now, gasping, wanting.

It’s better than he can’t see him.

They come, Arthur first, sticky and hot and disgustingly filthy. Dutch a moment or two after, gritting his teeth and forcing himself into silence.

Gasps.

Coming down, 

And Arthur pulls from him.

Silence as they clean themselves.

Silence as they move back out into the open.

Beautiful, blessed silence.

Because Arthur knows, he knows, he watches and listens and reads between the lines.

A gift Dutch gave him.

A promise.

They take up their places again, Dutch aching and hot and full, and stare into the spitting fire.

Silence.

And then,

“What if I come back with thirty thousand?”


End file.
